


Colonel Sportacus Champitor Crimson the Second

by hylian_reptile



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, RED TEAM GETS A DOG GET HYPED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11298240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/pseuds/hylian_reptile
Summary: “Admit it, Simmons. Sarge loves a twelve-year-old snorting football more than literally anyone or anything in this canyon. Except for his shotgun. And maybe killing Blues.”





	1. Colonel Sportacus Champitor Crimson the Second

First, the dog blows up Blue Base. Then it pisses on the Blue flag. Then it chews through Tucker’s porn mags.

 

“How come this dog is better than all my soldiers combined?!” Sarge demands. “And someone get this unauthorized mutt off the battlefield, it’s stealing my thunder!”

 

The dog pisses on Grif’s foot. Grif yells.

 

“Oh! A true soldier of the Red Army,” Sarge says, with tears in his voice.

 

“Yeah, whatever, give it a medal,” Church grouses, “just take the fuckin’ thing before Tucker tries to sue it for chewing through his busty Asian chicks.” Church shoves the dog at Simmons.

 

Simmons takes it, realizes it’s literally covered in dirt, and shoves it at Grif. Grif holds it out at arm’s length. The dog fires off another stream of piss. Grif yelps and puts it on the ground, where it immediately shoves its nose into its own privates and begins licking.

 

“What do we have to trade you for the hostage?” Sarge says suspiciously.

 

“Wha--nothing! It’s not a hostage! It’s a muddy, smelly fuckin’ dog that wandered in from nowhere and I want it out of my base!”

 

“Smells like a Blue trap,” Sarge growls.

 

“The trap is that you have to deal with the stupidest and ugliest dog I’ve ever seen, which is saying something because I had to help raise Tucker’s kid,” says Church.

 

“How about you shut the _fuck_ up, Church!” Tucker calls from across the canyon.

 

Church stomps off back to Blue Base. Grif is muttering and wiping his boot off as Sarge peers down at the dog. “By god, this _is_ the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen,” Sarge says. “What the devil _is_ this thing?”

 

“It appears to be a mixed-breed mutt, sir,” Simmons supplies. “If I was going to guess, it’s a pug with some other small dog breed. It’s probably already fully-grown, and from the color of its fur… over ten years old, maybe?”

 

The combination means that Sarge and Church are right: The dog looks a little bit like a hairy, wrinkly football with legs, if the football had breathing problems, a full inch of underbite, drooled constantly because of the underbite, and wheezed and snorted through its too-short nose every three seconds. It walks with a limp, and its fur has already gone grey. The dog sneezes in Sarge’s visor. Sarge dumps it back on the ground.

 

“So it’s a yappy lapdog,” says Grif. “One of those dogs that’re like, five percent tremble and ninety-five percent rage.”

 

“It’s too heavy to be part chihuahua or terrier,” says Simmons.

 

“Yeah, but it’s still too small to be useful,” says Grif. “And too old to do… anything.”

 

Sarge stares the dog down. “Let’s see what you’re made of, soldier! At attention!”

 

The dog rolls over.

 

“Ten bucks says Sarge pulls out the shotgun,” says Grif.

 

Simmons gives him a horrified look. “Sarge wouldn’t shoot an old dog!”

 

“But apparently I’m fair game,” Grif says darkly.

 

“Sit!” Sarge commands.

 

The dog licks its nose.

 

“Shake hands!

 

The dog drools.

 

“At attention!”

 

The dog farts.

 

“Here comes the shotgun,” says Grif.

 

“What is this disrespect, soldier?!” Sarge demands. “Don’t you know how to follow orders?!”

 

The dog scratches its head on Sarge’s shinplate and whines. Sarge growls and rubs its entire wrinkly face with his hands. The dog barks and wags its tail so hard that its entire body begins to wiggle.

 

“Counterpoint duly noted,” Sarge says. “Now, next question! Who’s a good boy?”

 

The dog pants.

 

Sarge squishes the grey wrinkles on its face into one giant wrinkle. The dog licks Sarge’s hand with enthusiasm. “Your resistance to simulated interrogation is commendable, but your superior has asked you a question!”

 

The dog whines and barks.

 

“Correct, soldier! The good boy is you!”

 

“What,” says Grif.

 

“Men,” Sarge declares, “I’d like to introduce our first member of Red Team’s new K-9 unit, who has just received a promotion to Private First Class for her stellar infiltration of Blue Base and destruction of Blue Team’s pornographic morale!

 

“ _What_ ,” says Simmons.

 

“As an esteemed member of Red Team, I’m naming her Sportacus Champitor Crimson the Second,” Sarge declares. “Or, for short, I’ll call her ‘Sport,’ or ‘Champ,’ or ‘Son’.”

 

“Sport? Champ?” Simmons chokes. “ _Son_?”

 

“Of course he names the dog the color red,” Grif mutters.

 

“I did what now?”

 

“Uh, the ‘Crimson’ part of the name?” says Grif.

 

“Nonsense!” says Sarge. “It’s ‘Crimson,’ like ‘son of Crim’!”

 

“Uhhhhhhhh, the fuck is a crim?” Grif asks.

 

“And who’s Sportacus Champitor Crimson the _First_?” Simmons asks.

 

“Don’t ask stupid questions!” says Sarge.

 

Sarge tucks Sportacus Champitor Crimson the Second under his arm next to his shotgun and walks back into Red Base. Grif and Simmons stare after them. Grif begins, “Is he really trying to imply that Sportacus Champitor Crimson the First is Sar…” Grif shuts up. “Actually, y’know what? I don’t want to know.”

 

***

 

Donut shrieks when he sees the dog and badgers Sarge about holding the dog for hours. Sarge whisks the dog away to the kitchen table and pulls out a medkit, but the dog ends up falling asleep, which prompts Sarge to threaten slow and painful death to anyone who dares disturb it.

 

Simmons eyes the mud-crusted fur. “Sir, I’m not sure that’s entirely sanitary…”

 

“She’s had a hard day, destroying the Blues,” says Sarge proudly. He gently turns the dog’s hind leg over in his hands. “Must be arthritis,” he mutters.

 

“Ten bucks says he cuts the leg off and replaces it with a cyborg limb,” says Grif in passing.

 

“He wouldn’t do that to an old, harmless dog!” Simmons protests.

 

“No, but apparently you’re fair game,” says Grif. “Admit it, Simmons. Sarge loves a twelve-year-old snorting football more than literally anyone or anything in this canyon. Except for his shotgun. And killing Blues.”

 

Simmons hands Sarge his forty-page report on the damage done to Blue Base that night. “Dammit, Simmons, can’t you tell I’m busy?” Sarge says. The dog has Grif’s favorite t-shirt in its mouth and is attempting to destroy it, despite its severe underbite and missing teeth.

 

“Sir, this is more damage done to Blue Base than has ever been done in the last five years, so reviewing the proper documentation is…”

 

“You can do it, girl,” Sarge tells the dog as if Simmons hadn’t even spoken. The t-shirt rips. “A-ha! Good work! Proud of you, Son!”

 

Simmons makes a tiny dying noise. ‘Proud of you’ to the _dog_ ? He’d called the dog _Son_?

 

“Simmons, I need that dog,” Donut whines quietly. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to have a fluffy, beautiful lapdog for my wine and cheese hour?!”

 

“Fluffy and beautiful?” Simmons asks, grumpily. “Have you seen that old muppet?”

 

Donut gasps. Sarge covers the dog’s ears. “Don’t listen to the bully, Son,” says Sarge.

 

Simmons drags his hands down his visor plate.

 

Grif takes the opportunity to relax in the Warthog while Lopez fixes it, except that Caboose comes to help, which means that the Warthog is broken and now it’s Grif’s fault. Sarge calls the Warthog a “regrettable sacrifice I must make for my men,” refuses to leave the dog to fix the Warthog, and feeds the dog Grif’s socks. Donut speculates aloud that Sarge is attempting to make the dog acquire a taste for it.

 

“Sir, I _really_ think we should check the Warthog—” Simmons says.

 

“The wellbeing of my soldier is my top priority, Private!” Sarge declares. The dog’s head is stuck in the sock. Donut is taking pictures.

 

And because Donut can never not send cute photos to Caboose, five minutes later, Blue Team is making meme photos of the dog’s head shoved into the inside of Grif’s sock: “ _me when sheila turns off friendly fire protocol_ ,” “ _tfw tucker wants to watch reservoir dogs again_ ,” and “ _HAVE YOU SEEN ANY HEADLIGHT FLUID???_ ”

 

Sarge only leaves the dog alone once to piss, at which point Donut immediately whisks the dog away and returns her three hours later with glitter-red nails, glossy and clean fur, minty-fresh teeth, and a hand-woven jacket the says “ _BETTER RED THAN DEAD~~~!!!_ ” in curlicue pink stitching. “Look at her! She’s beautiful!” Donut cries.

 

The dog takes a few steps, looking confused and irritated at its new outfit. Donut takes ten more pictures. Blue Team sends another meme over the shared comm chat of the dog pulling at its own red jacket and looking confused as hell: “ _actual footage of red team’s Vic, LOLOLOL_.”

 

“Oh, work it, girl!” Donut says. “You’re gorgeous inside and out!”

 

“No, Donut, this dog is still ugly,” says Simmons.

 

“Stellar work, soldier!” Sarge tells the dog. “Your commitment to the team color is commendable!”

 

“Sarge, we’re _all_ wearing red!” Simmons protests.

 

Sarge rubs the dog’s entire pudgy body, making all the wrinkles jiggle. Sonny barks happily. “Shut it, Simmons. This deserves a promotion! Congratulations, Sportacus Champitor Crimson the Second, you’re now a K-9 Corporal!”

 

“ _Sarge_ , it’s a _dog_!” Simmons cries.

 

“Yeah, and this dog has a better military career than you do, Simmons,” Grif says.

 

“You can’t call her _Sportacus_ !” Donut says. “It’s such a huge mouthful! And not even a _good_ huge mouthful!”

 

“I call her ‘Son’ for short,” says Sarge.

 

“Well, at least call her ‘Sonny’!” Donut says. “She’s a lady, you know!”

 

The dog flops on the ground and pants. “That might not be an entirely useless suggestion, Donut,” Sarge says, rubbing the dog’s belly. “How about that, Sonny?”

 

The dog licks Sarge’s face. Sarge, for the first time in five years, cracks a crooked smile.

 

Simmons practically runs out of the room.

 

***

 

Simmons comes back from his sulk to find Grif in the kitchen with Lopez and the dog. “Aquí viene el bebé llorón ( _Here comes the crybaby_ ),” Lopez says.

 

“Hey, Simmons, wanna help me feed Sonny?” Grif says.

 

Simmons glares at Sonny, who’s spread her tubby legs flat across the plastic table, except for the bad one. Sonny paws at Simmons’s hand and tries to lick it.

 

“Yeah, little manapua dog?” Grif says. The dog wheezes loudly. “Are you hungry? C’mon, girl, want some grub?”

 

“¿Qué mierda es un manapua? ( _What the fuck is a manapua?_ )” Lopez says.

 

“Stop feeding her Spam, Grif!” Sarge yells from the other room.

 

“It’s delicious,” Grif tells Sonny. “He’s just never tried it with shoyu. You gotta fry it.”

 

Grif pulls out an honest-to-god frying pan and chopsticks. “You’re cooking food for the dog?” Simmons asks in disbelief.

 

“Yeah? Why not?” says Grif.

 

“No soldier of mine is eating that god-awful dog kibble!” Sarge yells. “She rightfully refused that garbage!”

 

“Granted, Sarge wanting me to cook food for the dog is a good reason _not_ to,” says Grif, “but c’mon, Simmons. How can you say no to that face?” Grif scratches the dog behind the ears. Sonny sneezes and wags her tail and plops her butt down on the table. “See? Doesn’t she deserve a nice, homecooked meal?”

 

“You don’t even cook for _yourself_ ,” Simmons says in disbelief.

 

Grif waves it off and disappears into the pantry. Simmons stares at the dog. The dog tries to scratch its own ear but misses.

 

“Go away,” Simmons hisses.

 

The dog does not go away.

 

“You’re not even on Red Team! You’re not even red!”

 

“Nadie aquí es rojo, cracker ( _Nobody here is red, cracker_ ),” says Lopez.

 

The dog sniffs Simmons’s hand again. “See, she likes you,” says Grif, reappearing with three cans of Spam.

 

“Simmons, if I hear you bullying my best soldier one more time,” Sarge’s voice yells, “I swear I’ll have you court-martialed!”

 

Simmons sniffs loudly. “Everyone loves this dog more than me,” Simmons wails before he can think, and flees the kitchen.

 

Grif looks at Sonny, unamused. “Yeah, I never get any fuckin’ credit around here,” he tells her.

 

***

 

By the next day, Simmons decides that he has to get rid of the dog. By the end of the afternoon, he’s decided to take the little mutt and… well, he doesn’t really know, but in his imagination he’d quite like to punt the little rat off the mountain face. He cracks his knuckles, mutters half a pep talk to himself, and walks back inside the base.

 

Sarge is wailing on the top of his lungs about the futility of life and happiness and all meaning as we know it.

 

“He can’t get the dog to eat,” Grif explains.

 

Sonny is blinking its rheumy eyes at a collection of bowls, like a small fat god confused by its own shrine offerings. The contents of the bowls includes dog kibble, spam, chicken, ice cream, Tostito chips, watermelon, Oreos, and gasoline oil.

 

“Well, that’s just too bad,” says Simmons. “Guess we’ll have to return h—”

 

“DESPAIR!” Sarge cries over Simmons’s voice. “Oh, we are defeated in our most desperate hour…”

 

“He’s been going at this for like, forty minutes,” Grif says.

 

Simmons squints at the dog in suspicion. “I thought Sarge was feeding her a steady diet of your socks?”

 

“Yeah, I dunno what the nutritional value of polyester and body odor is,” Grif replies, “but something tells me it’s not a lot.”

 

“Ugh, Grif, that’s _gross_.”

 

Sarge buries his face into Sonny’s fur and wails again. Sonny looks mildly alarmed by the fifty-year-old man shrieking into her stomach.

 

“Okay, okay,” says Grif, and picks the dog up and shoves her at Simmons. “C’mon, Sarge, Simmons will go take the dog for a walk or something, we can ask Doc if he’s around if he knows anything, and in the meantime you can work on the Warthog, maybe clean your shotgun…”

 

“Shotgun’s for firin’! No use in cleaning it unless you can use it!”

 

“Okay, sure, I’ll go stand by the target rock,” Grif sighs.

 

“You’re just tryna make me feel better!” Sarge accuses tearfully.

 

“Oh geez, what gave it away?” Grif snaps.

 

“ _I’m_ taking the dog?” Simmons repeats. “But what am I supposed to do with it?” Simmons holds the dog at arm’s length like a smelly diaper.

 

“C’mon, dude, haven’t you ever seen a dog before?” Grif asks. “Uhh, play fetch? Take it for a walk? Train it to rip out the throats of your enemies? I dunno, it’s Sarge’s dog.”

 

Grif shoves him outside the base. Simmons looks at the dog in his hands. Sonny’s tongue is too long to fit entirely in its mouth, and the tongue is drooling on his gloves.

 

“Right,” says Simmons. “We’re taking you back to where you came from, and getting you out of my life. I’m not competing with an old dog for my military career.”

 

Sonny barks.

 

“I’m _not_ ,” Simmons insists.

 

Simmons scours the canyon, trying to find where the dog came from. Or at least, Simmons tries, but Sonny can’t walk very fast with her bad leg, and she also walks into a rock in the first ten seconds, so that’s “blind as a bat” to add to the list of problems this dumb fucking dog has. Simmons has to pick her up and carry her in his arms like a snorting, wheezing, hairy baby.

 

Simmons winds up halfway up the canyon mountain, trying to see beyond the canyon borders. There’s no civilization for miles. But he knew that. Which is why it makes no fucking sense that a dog would just wander into their canyon, looking like she’d just gotten lost on a walk. Sonny bounces up and down, visibly winces when her leg buckles, then begins licking the air like she can taste it and staring her rheumy eyes straight into the alien sun-star.

 

“Where the hell did you come from?” he asks her.

 

Sonny buries her wrinkled head into the mountain gravel and tries to dig.

 

“Well, I guess I don’t know where anyone else in this canyon came from,” Simmons mutters grumpily. “We still have to find you a proper home. You can’t stay with here.”

 

Technically, none of them could stay here. Blood Gulch is only a military outpost. “Proper home” was elsewhere for all of them.

 

Sonny wags her stumpy tail and pants in the hot air and crawls all over Simmons’s boots.

 

“And you’re walking yourself down,” Simmons says sternly.

 

He sets off. Sonny immediately slips and her face hits the dirt.

 

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Simmons groans, and picks her up again. She tucks herself into his arms like the spoiled princess she is and barks at Blue Base when they pass by.

 

***

 

Which gives Simmons an idea, actually. In the middle of the night, Simmons sneaks into the kitchen, where Sonny has made a pseudo-nest under the kitchen table, and smuggles her out of the base. She barely protests. By the time they get to Blue Base, she’s snoring in the crook of his arm. And loudly, too.

 

“Psst! Blues!” Simmons hisses.

 

No answer. Sonny barks softly in her sleep.

 

“I know you can hear me!” Simmons tries, louder.

 

“Fuck off, Red,” comes a weak voice.

 

“No! Wake up or I’m calling dibs on choosing the movie next week!”

 

There’s some fumbling, an audible crash, a colorful string of swear words followed by “put some _clothes_ on!” and then Tucker’s helmeted head pops out around the corner. Simmons is fairly sure Tucker’s not wearing anything else. “Ugh, what is it _now_?” Tucker complains.

 

Simmons holds up Sonny. Sonny snorts loudly in her sleep. “Do you want this dog back?”

 

“You woke us up for _that_?” Church’s voice exclaims.

 

“Church says we already have Caboose,” Tucker says.

 

“I can hear you,” Caboose’s voice says reproachfully.

 

“Nuh-uh, you’re still sleeping.”

 

“I can hear you in my sleep,” Caboose’s voice says.

 

“Well, don’t look at me! Church is the one who said it.”

 

“No, _I’m_ asleep!” Church says.

 

“You sound pretty awake,” says Tucker.

 

“Well, I _would_ be asleep, if you fucking idiots would shut up already!”

 

“But if I’m asleep, and Church is asleep,” says Caboose’s voice, “then who is Tucker talking to…? Are you talking to the voices in your head again?”

 

“I’m talking to Simmons!”

 

“No, Grif with three Fs is at Red Base with the Grif with two Fs, not in your head. Do not listen to the scary voices that tell you to light the base on fire, Tucker.”

 

“The _what_?” says Church.

 

“Please just take this dog!” Simmons interrupts, exasperated.

 

“Look, dude, we might love making fun of your dog, but we didn’t forget that that dog blew up our _base_ ,” Tucker says. “And chewed up all my porn mags!”

 

“Good point,” Caboose says. “Maybe we should take the dog.”

 

“UUUUGGGGHHHHHH,” says Church’s voice. “Just make the Red go away already!”

 

“The princess says she needs her beauty sleep,” says Tucker.

 

“No,” Church snaps, “I need to take any opportunity when I’m not crying over my dead girlfriend to actually fucking sleep for once!”

 

There’s a silence.

 

“Do you, um,” says Simmons, “uh, wanna talk about—”

 

“I WANT THE SCARLET GEEKSQUAD TO GO AWAY.”

 

“Good luck with your snorting, furry football, though,” Tucker says.

 

Simmons gasps and covers Sonny’s ears. “Don’t say that in front of her!” he says, and tucks Sonny into his arms like a snorting, furry football. “C’mon, Sonny, we’re leaving.”

 

“Goodbye, Grif with three Fs who lives inside Tucker’s head,” Caboose says plaintively.

 

***

 

By the second day, Sonny is visibly fatigued. Sarge won’t stop muttering about how they can’t even shoot the Blues before Sunday movie night and there’s no point to anything anymore and now he can’t even have his dog so…

 

Sonny sits on the kitchen table and curls up and tries to sleep. Her bad leg sticks out at an awkward angle. Simmons wonders how old Sonny really is.

 

“I think you gotta eat something,” Simmons mutters.

 

The dog sniffs the chicken tender. She sticks her tongue out. Gnaws at the end bit. Spits it back out.

 

“I thought she was already eating Grif’s socks?” Donut asks.

 

“I don’t think that counts as food, Donut,” Simmons replies.

 

There’s a long pause. “Really?” Donut asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

 

“Uhhhhhhhh,” says Simmons. “Well. _Yes_ , Donut. Really.”

 

“ _Really_?” Donut asks again, sounding suspicious now. “Because I think you’re just trying to fool me again, like that time Grif wrote ‘gullible’ on the ceiling…”

 

“And I really did, too!” Grif yells from the other room.

 

“No,” Donut yells back, “you wrote ‘gulible,’ with one L!”

 

“That’s only because Grif can’t spell for shit,” says Simmons.

 

“No, he played a trick on me, and _I_ didn’t fall for it! Franklin Delano Donut falls for no man’s ploy!”

 

Sarge drags Doc back from Blue Base, or wherever the fuck he’s been since they’d seen him last. “I’m a _medic_ ,” Doc protests, “not a doctor and _definitely_ not a veterinarian, so—”

 

“Just wave your glowy gun thing and say something plot-related,” Sarge growls.

 

“I’m not sure it works that way, but…”

 

Sarge cocks his shotgun. Doc waves his glowy gun thing.

 

“Uhhh,” says Doc.

 

“Well?” Sarge asks. “What’d it say?”

 

“Uh, nothing? Because I’m not a vet? What’s even the—”

 

Sarge wails about the heat death of the universe.

 

“—problem?” Doc finishes.

 

“She won’t eat anything we give her,” Grif explains.

 

“Except Grif’s socks,” says Donut.

 

“Only Grif’s socks?” Doc repeats.

 

“Well, she prefers the socks,” says Donut, “but apparently his t-shirts, his pants, even his underwear is all fair game!”

 

Doc frowns. “That's... really odd. Are you sure this is even a dog?”

 

They all look at Sonny.

 

“Didn’t we _just_ get through a freaky alien plotline with Tucker?” Grif says. “We really don’t need you jinxing this one.”

 

“C’mon, Doc!” Donut pleads. “Can’t you tell us _anything_?”

 

Doc shrugs. “I can make her more comfortable while she dies?”

 

“What?” Donut asks.

 

“I mean, that’s what I do as a medic, so…”

 

“I don’t get it,” says Donut. “Everyone knows that dogs don’t die.”

 

“Uhhh,” says Doc.

 

“It’s true,” says Grif. “Dogs are immortal.”

 

“Sounds legit to me,” says Simmons.

 

“It’s an official Red Team rule,” says Sarge. “Right under ‘Don’t talk about Simmons’s feelings’.”

 

“Oooooookay,” says Doc. “Then, uh, carry on feeding her Grif’s socks, I guess? And… ignoring Simmons’s feelings?”

 

Sarge snaps his fingers. “Simmons!” Sarge shouts. “You heard the doctor! Get this dog some of Grif’s socks!”

 

“Sir, yes sir!”

 

***

 

“But you’re still a lot of trouble,” says Simmons that night, after everyone has gone to sleep. Sonny is chewing vigorously through two of Grif’s t-shirts, a pair of board shorts, and three socks. All of them smell like they haven’t ever been washed in Grif’s entire deployment here at Blood Gulch. Simmons is trying very hard to think of when the last time Grif did laundry was and actually can’t remember.

 

Sonny’s head is stuck in the sock again. “You’re going to suffocate in there,” Simmons tells her, and pulls the sock off.

 

Sonny’s got half a chocolate bar in her mouth.

 

“Wait,” says Simmons. “Did you find that in the—”

 

Sonny opens her mouth and bites down hard. Simmons, belatedly, remembers that chocolate is poisonous to dogs.

 

“FUCKSHITNOGETHATOUTOFYOURMOUTHCOMEHEREGIVEMETHATOPENYOURMOUTHISWEARTO—”

 

Simmons removes the chocolate bar, then washes out Sonny’s mouth (to her _supreme_ irritation), then washes her face, her paws, and then the sock. “What the _fuck_ is Grif putting in his socks,” Simmons mutters, “like it’s some kind of hidey-hole for his nasty snacks, does he _eat_ that shit after he’s put them in his socks? Is that—”

 

He holds the dripping wet dog out at arm’s length. Sonny wheezes.

 

Simmons turns every one of Grif’s socks inside out. They all have crumbs and empty snack wrappers on the inside, because Grif, the lazy _fucker_ , is apparently too lazy to throw away his own snacks like a proper human being and just squirrels away his trash whenever Sarge does a bed inspection. Simmons looks at Sonny in suspicion. Sonny slurps at her own nose.

 

Simmons dumps half a cup of chopped chicken into Grif’s sock and puts it on the table. Sonny shoves her wrinkled head right into the sock, digs out all the chicken, and chews them all up.

 

“That’s it. It’s official,” says Simmons. “You’re officially the grossest dog I’ve ever seen. What kind of nasty creature only eats food if it comes out of a cotton foot tube?”

 

Sonny paws at his arm until he puts her in his lap, where she promptly curls up and falls asleep.

 

***

 

“DONUT,” Grif yells. “WHAT DID YOU DO AND WHY DO ALL MY CLOTHES SMELL LIKE CHICKEN?”

 

***

 

Two hours later, all of Grif’s clothes have gone through the washer _and_ dryer. “Oh my _god_ ,” Simmons says, peering into his room. “Is your room… _clean_? Am I hallucinating? Am I dead? Am I dying? Are _you_ dying?”

 

“I can’t have all my clothes smelling like chicken,” Grif complains. “Or like, I tried, but the smell was too bad even for me. If all my clothes smell like chicken, then my whole room smells like chicken! Seriously, Simmons, why do all my clothes smell like chicken?!”

 

Simmons shrugs innocently. Grif stomps away. Simmons looks at Sonny, the tiny, gross, unexpected Holy Grail of Actually Making Grif Be Clean For Once.

 

Sonny pants and wags her tail.

 

***

 

“SIMMONS,” Grif yells. “WHY DO ALL MY CLOTHES SMELL LIKE CHICKEN AGAIN? NOW I HAVE TO DO LAUNDRY _AGAIN_!”

 

Simmons looks Sonny in the eye.

 

“You are the _best_ ,” Simmons whispers, “and I love you.”

 

Sonny barks.

 

***

 

Grif catches on eventually. “Aahhhh it’s not my fault!” Simmons yells. “Sonny won’t eat out of anything else, I tried, she only eats food if it comes out of your socks!”

 

“That’s _bullshit_ ,” Grif yells back, “and sounds like the plot of a shitty romcom!”

 

Simmons stares at him. “Wait--what kind of romcoms are _you_ watching?”

 

“Uhhhhhh,” says Grif.

 

Simmons whispers, very quietly: “Did you... watch a _foot fetish romcom_?”

 

“UHHHHH,” says Grif.

 

“Oooh,” says Donut, “is that the one I showed you where—”

 

“NO AND SHUT UP DONUT,” Grif yells.

 

Simmons says, “Wait did you _really_ watch something Donut showed you because I want to h—”

 

“Well!” Donut chirps. “It’s—”

 

“ _Donut you fucking backstabbing traitor you promised me you’d never_ —”

 

“Shut your hollering!” Sarge shouts from the doorway. He’s got Lopez at his side, shotgun across his back, and Sonny barking happily underneath his arm. “The Blues are attacking! I want everyone on deck on the double!”

 

“Sir,” says Simmons, “I’m not sure the correct phrase is ‘on deck’ if we’re not in the Navy—”

 

“Double time, soldier!”

 

Sonny barks again.

 

“You heard K-9 Sergeant Sonny! That’s _triple_ time for you, Grif!”

 

“I’m the one donating my socks for this war!” Grif wails.

 

The Blues who are attacking are, in fact, a singular Blue, which is Caboose. “Yes, hello,” he calls. “I would like to meet Admiral Sportacus Champitor Crimson the Second.”

 

“A diabolical plot!” Sarge rages. “A scheme to make us put our guards down!”

 

“Arguably, our guards have been down for… years,” says Simmons.

 

“Arguably, we never had guards to begin with,” says Grif.

 

“ _We_ were the guards,” says Simmons.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” says Grif.

 

“Pretty please,” says Caboose. “With a fruit of your choice on top, because I am allergic to cherries and do not want to assume what you are and are not allergic to.”

 

“I don’t trust it,” Sarge mutters. He squeezes Sonny to his chest. Sonny makes a noise like a balloon being deflated. “If we send someone out there, the rest of the Blues will jump out and…”

 

“Jump out from where?” Simmons asks. “There’s no rocks or literally any other type of coverage in this canyon.”

 

“From the sky! From the dirt! From hell itself, where Blue Command resides!”

 

“Plllllllllllleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaase,” Caboose whines. “You can take me as a hostage! If it means I can pet the dog!”

 

Sarge groans.

 

“Oh, have a heart!” Donut says.

 

Sarge grumbles.

 

“Seriously, Sarge?” says Grif.

 

“Well,” Sarge mumbles, “if he’s coming as a hostage…”

 

Five minutes later, Sarge is staring distrustfully at Caboose as he sits on the kitchen floor, Sonny in his lap, while Simmons scratches Sonny’s ears and Caboose chatters nonstop at Sonny herself: “And then Sheila said, ‘Yes, Caboose, I will love you forever,’ and then I thought, ‘oh! Mother said that if a girl or a boy ever says I love you then I should be very careful, and I should not be a, quote unquote, cheapass bitch like her ex-husband’--”

 

Grif chokes on his Hot Pocket.

 

“--so I said ‘thank you very much, Sheila, and I love you very much but I also love Church very much, and also my pet rock Sally very much, although Sally is back at home on the moon—”

 

Sonny squirms out of Caboose’s arms and into Simmons’s lap. Donut makes a squealing noise and takes more pictures. Simmons glares, but his black look is rendered somewhat less threatening as Sonny licks his face.

 

“Oh, give it a rest, Donut, she only likes me because I’m the only one on this team who feeds her,” Simmons grumbles. “Sarge would have her live on motor oil and Strawberry Yoohoos if he could.”

 

“It’s a complete diet!” Sarge protests.

 

“Well, I think Sonny loves you very much too, Simon,” says Caboose.

 

“Too bad,” says Simmons. “I hate this ugly mutt.”

 

“Yes, but that is what you say about Grif with two Fs, too,” says Caboose.

 

Grif chokes again.

 

“Nope!” says Simmons. “I hate this dog, and she’s more trouble than she’s worth, and I still think we should get rid of her.”

 

“Yes, but that is what you say about—”

 

“I HATE HER,” says Simmons loudly. “END OF STORY.”

 

A faint alarm begins to play from Simmons’s helmet.

 

“Excuse me, it’s time for Sonny’s dinner,” he says. Caboose sits at the kitchen table and watches as Simmons prepares finely-ground hamburger meat, lightly garnished with chives and onions, lays out a placemat for Sonny, and pulls out one of Grif’s ugliest, dirtiest socks.

 

“I’ll go get my fuckin’ laundry bag,” Grif mutters.

 

“My best soldier,” Sarge says, rubbing Sonny’s head.

 

***

 

That night, Sonny escapes Sarge’s room and slips through Simmons’s door.

 

“Yeah, I don’t like you at all, asshole,” says Simmons, as Sonny rolls around in Simmons’s bed, burrowing her head into his covers and scratching at the mattress. “Nope, not me, I’d never like this smelly, stinky old dog.”

 

Sonny sniffs Simmons’s pillow, circles three times, and plops herself down right on the pillow. Simmons pushes her. She doesn’t budge. Simmons decides he’ll just have to sleep without his pillow.

 

“Of course I hate this fatass dog,” he says out loud.

 

Simmons lies down. Sonny immediately gets up and nestles herself against his side, her head resting on his stomach. Simmons’s chest has a peculiar feeling inside it, like a bubble full of helium.

 

“Ugly, spoiled mutt,” Simmons mumbles.

 

He closes his eyes, one hand still scratching her ears and Sonny’s slow breaths warm against his waist. Eventually, they drift to sleep.


	2. Bonus Round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> scenes i couldnt fit anywhere else but i literally could NOT bring myself to delete

BONUS 1:

 

Grif is smoking a cigarette by himself when the Blues find him.

 

“This is the saddest shit I’ve ever seen,” says Church.

 

“Who, me? Sad? Nah,” says Grif.

 

“You’ve been replaced,” says Tucker.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Church.

 

“No, seriously, look,” says Tucker. “Now Simmons has a dog that’s just as lazy, fat, useless, and stupid as Grif that he can pretend to hate. He can even call the dog pet names likes ‘fatass’ and ‘asshole.’ This is literally the exact same relationship.”

 

“Huh, I guess that's true. But with less fucking,” says Church. Pauses. “I mean. _Hopefully_.”

 

“Uh, ew,” says Grif. “And I’m also pretty sure I’d notice if I was fucking Simmons.”

 

“Are you sure about that?” Church asks. “With the size of your ass, maybe you sat on his face by accident?”

 

“Okay, _bye_ ,” says Grif, and stands up and leaves.

 

“You could always try it!” Church calls after him.

 

“And if you do," Tucker says, "let me know how it goes!”

 

* * *

 

 

BONUS 2:

 

“You have the _worst_ name,” Simmons mutters. He pulls a brush through her growing fur, careful of her bad leg. “No matter what I call you, I either sound like a lunatic, a douchebag, or some kind of cheesy positive father figure cartoon—”

 

Simmons stops dead. He looks Sonny in the eye. “Sport. Champ,” Simmons says, quite seriously. “ _Sonny_."

 

Sonny barks.

 

“Oh my god,” Simmons whispers. “Now that I have you, I don’t need a positive father figure. I’m my _own_ positive father figure now.”

 

Grif stops dead in the open doorway. Simmons looks at him. Grif looks at Simmons.

 

“Y’know, I don’t really wanna know the context for that statement,” says Grif, and walks away.

 

“GRIF WAIT I CAN EXPLAIN...!”

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